Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
He winced. “Heard that loud and clear.”
On more than one occasion, Russo Sr. had grabbed her by the throat, slammed her against the wall and whispered, “Good girl,” into her ear. Unable to break cover, she could do nothing about it except pretend it didn’t bother her. She never wanted to hear that type of praise again. It turned her stomach.
“Good.” She tried to get them back on track. “Though, before that, I did the FBI Honors Internship Program between my junior and senior years at Pitt.” That ten-week program cemented the fact she wanted to become a special agent. And if the FBI hadn’t wanted her, she would’ve found another federal organization that did.
“I’m guessing you had an ‘in’ to get one of the coveted internship spots?”
“I did.”
His brown eyes narrowed on her. “Who?”
“My uncle.”
“He was an agent?”
“A senior special agent with the organized crime division. I was fascinated with what he did and some of the stories, or partial stories, he was allowed to tell me. Since I looked up to him, I decided to follow the same career path.”
“I bet you make him proud.”
“Yeah.” Nova’s attention was glued to his mouth as he chewed.
“He still working?”
“No.”
“He’s retired?”
“He was killed in the line of duty.” Losing him still hurt to this day. Especially with how she lost him. It was the main factor why she wanted to work in the organized crime division.
“Fuck.” He set down his mug and sat back in his chair, watching her intently from across the table. “By who?”
She pulled in a breath through her nose and released it out of her mouth along with, “La Cosa Nostra.”
His spine snapped straight. “Jesus H. Christ. The Russos?”
She put down her fork since talking about losing her uncle always made her stomach twist. This morning was no different. A shame since what she had eaten so far had been damn good. “No. The Parisis.”
“Ah, so you must have a beef with the Sicilians,” he concluded. Wrongly, of course.
She didn’t hate all Sicilians, just the ones involved in organized crime and murder. “The only beef I had was with the man who killed my uncle.”
“Was,” he echoed. “Was it a hit?”
“Cyanide. In his food. He died a slow, painful death.” She didn’t bother to hide her satisfied smirk.
Fletch grimaced and shoved his plate away, even though he wasn’t finished. “How about we divide up the chores around here and I’ll do all the cooking?”
“I don’t mind cooking,” she lied. She actually hated cooking but was enjoying his reaction.
“I mind you cooking.”
“I promise not to poison you.” She rolled her lips under.
“I don’t know you well enough to know if you break promises.”
She narrowed her eyes on him. “Just don’t do anything that warrants me using cyanide as a spice on your tuna casserole.”
“I hope you’re fucking kidding.”
Nova shrugged. “I most likely am.”
“That’s assuring.”
“You’re not speaking like a biker.”
“But you are.”
“Why? Do ol’ ladies tend to poison their ol’ men?” she asked.
“Wouldn’t put it past them.”
She reached for his mug. “I’ll get you more coffee.”
He snagged it first and shoved his seat back abruptly. “I got it.”
She turned her head away to hide her laughter as he grabbed her mug, too, and quickly disappeared into the kitchen.
Her eyes once again zeroed in on his retreating back and that compass tattoo.
Since they were supposed to be using this time to get to know each other… “Why the compass?” she called out, poking at a piece of the hash brown patty. Even though it was now room temperature, she ate it anyway. Her appetite might have waned but she didn’t want to waste the food or the effort he put into making it.
He appeared again, carrying two steaming mugs. As soon as he placed one in front of her, she took a long sip, closing her eyes in ecstasy.
“Guess you can’t function without coffee.”
Unfortunately, with her eyes closed she discovered the rich timbre of his voice affected her even more, so she opened them. “You can?”
“Nope,” Fletch answered. “It’s the only addiction I have.”
“Same. So, the compass?”
“It means guidance, protection and direction. And what cop couldn’t use a little more of that? I figured my back was the best place to put it.”
It was also a great place to hide it for when he worked patrol. “Do you have enemies and need to protect your back?”
He took a sip of his coffee but remained standing next to her instead of taking his seat. “Merely wearing a badge tends to create enemies.”
That was true. Some law enforcement officers made more than others. But then, if you weren’t making enemies, you probably weren’t doing your job. No one liked getting a citation or arrested.
“Got any?”
She set her mug down. “Yes.”
“Yeah,” he corrected.
She turned on the ol’ lady attitude, even adding a head bob. “Yeah, I got one. What about it?”